


Et du trône d'où je me tiens, (je te vois)

by Rori



Category: Bleach
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, Winter War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:01:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22779112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rori/pseuds/Rori
Summary: He can grow three more arms, a set of wings or twisted horns - so can you.And if he grows ten or a hundred or a thousand more, so will you.
Kudos: 16





	Et du trône d'où je me tiens, (je te vois)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Owari26](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owari26/gifts).



> All it took for this to exist was one long, hard look at a drawing.  
> The title roughly means 'from the throne I see you'.
> 
> Thanks to Owari :p

You feel his solitude echo deep in what little silences are left in-between the eerie, immortal sound of clashing swords and the more muted one of faraway rocks crushed to brown dust. Chills run along your spine, and you are almost joyful - this enemy is not one you’ve made. 

Aizen, not unlike the army under his command, made himself.

‘It is not me you should fight, Kurosaki Ichigo.’

Still, it is your fate to unmake him.

You do not mind. 

The violet hue of his new eyes is cold, and golden at the same time. Whatever loneliness you feel in his blade and gaze, it is not new - you suspect it has been here for a long, long time. It walks in Aizen’s shadow, haunts his thoughts. _Can I ever be me_ , it asks, catching him unaware still, even after all these years. _Can_ it _ever be me_ , it goes on, like an old song, like a forgotten lover.

This is a kind of familiar despair that the darker part of you hungers for - you killed your blade to acquire an impossible power, but it seems its stomach is still alive.

And growling.

‘If it’s not you I should fight, who should I fight, Aizen?! Look around -’

For a few seconds, your hand encompasses the whole world.

‘ _You_ did this!’

He laughs at you, showing all of his white, pointy teeth in a mocking smile.

You know the world is not made of such simplistic truths, but it is easier to believe that killing this man will restore your world to its former peaceful state - after all, was it not turned upside down by _his_ hand? But for all your adolescent, immature incertitudes, there is one thing you know for sure: this man is not going to stop. Not unless someone makes him.

Your dark sword clashes with his, and you feel it again, nagging at you - Aizen is not alone, but his loneliness is washing through you in uneven, irregular waves. It reminds you a little of Ishida, shouldering alone the dead weight of an extinct species, of an entire dynasty gone in the blink of an eye. 

The Hollows are an entirely different kind of dead weight, to their master. If it had been the opposite, if he’d been born Hollow - would have Aizen enlisted the Shinigami to invade Hueco Mundo and kill its elusive king? _What difference does it make_ , you wonder, eyeing unimpressed the new changes to your enemy’s appearance. 

He can grow three more arms, a set of wings or twisted horns - so can you. And if he grows ten or a hundred or a thousand more, so _will_ you. 

Every wound Aizen ever gave you serve only one purpose, now : stopping him. 

Every scar he left on your body is a testament of this truth, and now, he, too, knows.

‘You won’t kill me with your kindness,’ Aizen spits at you, his uneasy snarl not fooling you - you feel it, then. Amidst the solitude, there’s the cold numbness of fear.

His blows grow desperate, but he’s not yet powerless; he’ll change, again, but whatever throne this man decided to build on the ashes of the world, it’s nothing more than a frail house of cards.

The words you said to Grimmjow earlier echo all the more true as you deflect a blow that ricochets through a forest; _I’ll just grow more powerful - and I’ll defeat you. I’ll defeat all the Espada above you. Then, I’ll defeat Aizen._

You’ll kill the whole world, if you have to; but before the world, there’s you, and that black blade in your hand that would gladly die if it meant your absolute victory. In your mouth, those words don’t quite come out this way. 

Instead, you hear yourself say, ‘Mugetsu’.

You tell yourself that it’s only another scar, one that will be on your heart but not your conscience; after all, aren’t you amputating a part of you that should never have been there? Death cannot inhabit you, not as long as you live and breathe. 

Your hand seizes Aizen’s throat, but there’s no skin to touch; your fingertips no longer are, and for a hot second your traitorous mind wonders if it’s going to be _enough_ , if anything is ever going to be enough to end this undying, godlike man. Under the newly found strength your hand, his pulse becomes a little more elusive at each second, until there’s no more breath in him - 

‘Your pathetic attempt is nothing -’

No.

It is _everything_.

You squeeze harder, feeling your nails rip the fabric of this divine skin he gained, but does not deserve. Your other hand reaches inside the bony cavity of his chest, in this holy, forgotten place Kuchiki Byakuya once violated inside you.

 _Who’s pathetic_ , _now_ , you wonder as he claws at your wrist, not even breaking through the black fabric of Mugetsu, not even reaching skin or bones - no blood is drawn except his, and in that fateful moment, there’s only you standing above this whole world of lies Aizen built for himself.

His heart finally stops beating - you have reached deep enough to tear his reiatsu from him, so this world will finally claim Aizen like it usually does for all other dead things. You let go of his throat, of his heart of hearts, eyeing the powdery remnants of him on your fingertips. 

It feels like touching - 

In the blink of an eye, Mugetsu leaves you, and you are no more the all powerful being you were for second, centuries and everything in between - you are just an adolescent standing above the lifeless body of a man whose dead eyes meet yours, and tears prickle at your eyes. A single one rolls down your face, caresses your cheek and pools at your shin; it falls alsant, into one of the deep brown eye looking right back at you.

A sly smile creeps on Aizen’s lips before he’s completely gone, and he whispers to you, ‘Now you know.’

\- the fine dust on a butterfly’s wings. 


End file.
